Phyllis of Philistia by Frank Frankfort Moore

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Why, simply, that while she was putting on that supreme toilet whichshe had prepared for the delight of the eyes of her lover (feelingherself to be a modern Cleopatra), that lover of hers was sitting onthe cushions of a first-class carriage, flying along to Southampton;and while she had been lying among the cushions of her drawing room,waiting tremulously, nervously, ecstatically, for the dreary minutesto crawl on until the clock should chime the hour of nine, he wasprobably lighting his first pipe aboard the yacht /Water Nymph/. Whatdid it matter that she had lifted her hot face from her cushions andhad fled in wild haste to the arms of Phyllis Ayrton? The factremained the same; it was he who had run away from her.

That was a terrible reflection. Hitherto she had never felthumiliated. She had not felt that he had insulted her by his kisses;she had given him kiss for kiss. She had but to hold up her finger andhe was ready to obey her. But now--what was she to think of him? Hadever man so humiliated woman? She had offered him, not her heart buther soul--had he not told her a few days before that he meant her togive him her soul? and when she had laid heart and soul at his feet--that was how she put it to herself--he had not considered it worth hiswhile to take the priceless gift that she offered to him.

"He will answer to me for that," she said, as she thought over herhumiliation, in front of her dressing-glass that morning, while hermaid was absent from the room.

Her wish was now not that her prayer had been less earnest, but thatit had not been uttered at all. It was necessary for her to meet himagain in order that he might explain to her how it came that he hadpreferred the attractions incidental to a cruise with Lord Earlscourtand his friends to all that she had written to offer him.

And yet when her husband, after having quite finished with his paper,said:

"It's very awkward that Herbert Courtland is not in town,"

She merely raised her shoulders an inch, saying:

"I suppose that he has a right to take a holiday now and then. If youdidn't telegraph to him from Paris, you cannot complain."

"I felt certain that I should find him here," said the husband.

"Here?" said the wife, raising her eyebrows and casting an offendedglance at her husband. "Here?"

He smiled in the face of her offended glance.

"Here--in London, I mean, of course. Heavens, Ella! did you fancy fora moment that I meant---- Ah, by the way, you have seen him recently?"

"Oh, yes; quite recently--on Tuesday, I think it was, we met at theAyrton's dinner party--yes, it was Tuesday. There was some fuss, orattempted fuss, about his adventures in New Guinea, and a question wasbeing asked about the matter in the House of Commons. Mr. Ayrton gotrid of some of his superfluous cleverness in putting a counterquestion--you know the way."

"Oh, perfectly well! And that is how you met on Tuesday--if it wasTuesday?"

"Yes; he went to thank Mr. Ayrton, and Mr. Ayrton asked him to dinner.It was a small party, and not very brilliant. Herbert came here withme afterward--for five minutes."

"Ah! To get the taste of the party off his mouth, I suppose? He didn'tsay anything to you then about being tired of his London season?"

"Not a word. He seemed tired of the dinner party. He yawned."

"And I'm sure that you yawned in sympathy. When a man so far forgetshimself as to yawn in the presence of a woman, she never fails torespond with one of more ample circumference. When a woman so farremembers herself as to yawn in the presence of a man, he tries to saysomething witty."

"Yes, when the woman is not his wife. If she is his wife, he asks herif she doesn't think it's about time she was in bed."

"I dare say you're right; you have observed men--and women, for thatmatter--much more closely than I have had time to do. It's veryawkward that he isn't here. I must bring him back at once."

She felt a little movement at her heart; but she only said:

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you. Why shouldn't he be allowed toenjoy his holiday in peace?"

"It's a matter of business; the mine, I told you."

"What's wrong with the mine that could be set right by his coming backat once? Are you not making enough out of it?"

"We're making quite as much as is good for us out of it. But if we canget a hundred and fifty thousand pounds for a few yards of our claimfurther east, without damaging the prospects of the mine itself, Idon't think we should refuse it--at any rate, I don't think that weshould refuse to consider the offer."

"What is a hundred and fifty thousand pounds?" said she.

"I wonder why you dressed yourself as you did last night?" said he.

The suddenness of the words did not cause her to quail as the guiltywife quails--yes, under a properly managed lime-light. She did noteven color. But then, of course, she was not a guilty wife.

She lay back on her chair and laughed.

He watched her--not eagerly, but pleasantly, admiringly.

"My dear Stephen, if you could understand why I dressed myself thatway you would be able to give me a valuable hint as to where theconnection lies between your mine and my toilet--I need such a hint,now, I can assure you."

She was sitting up now looking at him with lovely laughing eyes.(After all, she was no guilty wife.)

"What, you can't see the connection?" he said slowly. "You can sewover your dress about fifty thousand pounds' worth of diamonds, andyet you don't see the connection between the wearing of that dress andthe development of a gold mine by your husband?"

"I think I see it now--something of a connection. But I don't want anymore diamonds; I don't care if you take all that are sewed about thedress and throw them into the river. That's how I feel this morning."

"I heard some time ago of a woman who had something of your mood uponher one day. She had some excellent diamonds, and in one of her moods,she flung them into the river. She was a wife and she had a lover whodisappointed her. The story reads very smoothly in verse."

She laughed.

"I have no lover," she said--was it mournfully? "I have a husband, itis true; but he is not exactly of the type of King Arthur--nor SirGalahad, for that matter. I hope you found Paris as enjoyable asever?"

"Quite. I never saw at Paris a more enrapturing toilet than yours oflast night. You are, I know, the handsomest woman of my acquaintance,and you looked handsomer than I had ever before seen you in thatcostume. I wonder why you put it on."

"Didn't someone--was it Phyllis?--suggest that it was an act ofinspiration; that I had a secret, mysterious prompting to put it on toachieve the object which--well, which I did achieve."

"Object? What object?"

"To make my husband fall in love with me again."

"Ah! In love there is no again. I wonder where a telegram would findHerbert."

"Don't worry yourself about him. Let him enjoy his holiday."

"Do you fancy he is enjoying himself with Earlscourt and his booncompanions? They'll be playing poker from morning till night--certainly from night till morning."

"Why should he go on the cruise if he was not certain to enjoyhimself?"

"Ah, that question is too much for me. Think over it yourself and letme know if you come to a solution, my dear."

He rose and left the room before she could make any answer--before shecould make an attempt to find out in what direction his thoughtsregarding the departure of Herbert Courtland were moving.

She wondered if he had any suspicion in regard to Herbert and herself.He was not a man given to suspicion, or at any rate, given to allowingwhatever suspicion he may have felt, to be apparent. He had allowedher to drive and to ride with Herbert Courtland during the four monthsthey had been together, first at Egypt, then at Florence, Vienna,Munich, and Paris, and he could not have but seen that Herbert and shehad a good many sympathies in common. Not a word had been breathed,however, of a suspicion that they were more than good friends to eachother.

(As a matter of fact, they had not been more than good friends to eachother; but then some husbands are given to unworthy suspicions.)

Could it be possible, she asked herself, that some people with nastyminds had suggested to him in Paris that she and Herbert were togethera great deal in London, and that he had been led to make this suddenvisit, this surprise visit to London, with a view of satisfyinghimself as to the truth of the nasty reports--the disgracefulcalumnies which had reached his ears?

If he had done so, all that could be said was that he had beensingularly unfortunate in regard to his visit. "Unfortunate" was theword which was in her mind, though, of course /"fortunate"/ was theword which should have occurred to her. It was certainly a fortunateresult of his visit--that tableau in the drawing room of Mr. Ayrton:Ella and her dearest friend standing side by side, hand in hand, as heentered. A surprise visit, it may have been, but assuredly thesurprise was a pleasant one for the husband, if he had listened to thevoice of calumny.

And then, after pondering upon this with a smiling face, her smilesuddenly vanished. She was overwhelmed with the thought of what mighthave been the result of that surprise visit--yes, if she had not hadthe strength to run away to the side of Phyllis; yes, if Herbert hadnot had the weakness to join that party of poker-players aboard theyacht.

She began to wonder what her husband would have done if he had enteredthe house by the aid of his latch-key, and had found her sitting inthat lovely costume by the side of Herbert Courtland? Would he havethought her a guilty woman? Would he have thought Herbert a falsefriend? Would he have killed her, or would he have killed Herbert?Herbert would, she thought, take a good deal of killing from a man ofthe caliber of her husband; but what could she have done?

Well, what she did, as the force of that thought crushed her back uponher chair, was to bring her hands together in a passionate clasp, andto cry in a passionate gasp:

"Thank God--thank God--thank God!"

She dined alone with her husband that night, and thought it well toappear in another evening toilet--one that was quite as lovely, thoughscarcely so striking, as that which her husband had so admired theprevious night. He clearly appreciated her efforts to maintain herloveliness in his eyes, and their little dinner was a very pleasantone.

He told her that he had learned that the yacht /Water Nymph/ would putin to Leith before crossing the North Sea, and that he had written toHerbert Courtland at that port to return without delay.

"You did wrong," said she; and she felt that she was speaking thetruth.

"I don't think so," he replied. "At any rate, you may rest perfectlycertain that Herbert will receive my letter with gratitude."

And Mr. Linton's judgment on this point was not in error. HerbertCourtland received, on the evening of the third day after leavingSouthampton, the letter which called him back to London, and hecontrived to conceal whatever emotion he may have felt at the prospectof parting from his shipmates. They accompanied him ashore, however--they had worn out six packs of cards already, and were about to buyanother dozen or two, to see them safely through the imposing sceneryof the Hardanger Fjord.

The next day he was in London, and it was on the evening of that sameday that he came face to face with the Rev. George Holland outsideMiss Ayrton's drawing room.

CHAPTER XXV.

LIES! LIES! LIES!

"You should have come a little sooner," said Phyllis quite pleasantly."Mr. Courtland was giving me such an amusing account of his latestvoyage. Will you have tea or iced coffee?"

"Tea, if you please," said George Holland, also quite pleasantly. "HasMr. Courtland been on another voyage of discovery? What has he lefthimself to discover in the world of waters?"

"I think that what he discovered on his latest voyage was the effectof a banjo on the human mind," laughed Phyllis. "He was aboard LordEarlscourt's yacht, the /Water Nymph/. Some other men were there also.One of them had an idea that he could play upon the banjo. He waswrong, Mr. Courtland thinks."

"A good many people are subject to curious notions of the same type.They usually take an optimistic view of the susceptibilities ofenjoyment of their neighbors--not that there is any connection betweenenjoyment and a banjo."

"Mr. Courtland said just now that when Dr. Johnson gave it as hisopinion that music was, of all noises, the least disagreeable, thebanjo had not been invented."

"That assumes that there is some connection between music and thebanjo, and that's going just a little too far, don't you think?"

"I should like to hear Dr. Johnson's criticism of Paderewski."

"His criticism of Signor Piozzi is extant: a fine piece of eighteenthcentury directness."

"I sometimes long for an hour or two of the eighteenth century. Youremember Fanny Burney's reference to the gentleman who thought itpreposterous that Reynolds should have increased his price for aportrait to thirty guineas, though he admitted that Reynolds was agood enough sort of man for a painter. I think I should like to havean hour with that man."

"I long for more than that. I should like to have seen David Garrick'sreproduction, for the benefit of his schoolfellows, of Dr. Johnson'slove passages with his very mature wife. I should also like to haveheard the complete story of old Grouse in the gun room."

"Told by Squire Hardcastle, of course?"

"Of course. I question if there was anything very much better aboardthe /Water Nymph/. By the way, Lady Earlscourt invited me to join theyachting party. She did not mention it to her husband, however. Shethought that there should be a chaplain aboard. Now, considering thatLord Earlscourt had told me the previous day that he was compelled totake to the sea solely on account of the way people were worrying himabout me, I think that I did the right thing when I told her that Ishould be compelled to stay at home until the appearance of a certainpaper of mine in the /Zeit Geist Review/."

"I'm sure that you did the right thing when you stayed at home."

"And in writing the paper in the /Zeit Geist/? You have read it?"

"Oh, yes! I have read it."

"You don't like it?"

"How could I like it? You have known me now for sometime. How couldyou fancy that I should like it--that is, if you thought of me at allin connection with it? I don't myself see why you should think of meat all."

He rose and stood before her. She had risen to take his empty cup fromhim.

"Don't you know that I think of you always, Phyllis?" he said, in thatlow tone of his which flowed around the hearts of his hearers, andmade their hearts as one with his heart. "Don't you know that I thinkof you always--that all my hopes are centered in you?"

"I am so sorry if that is the case, Mr. Holland," said she. "I don'twant to give you pain, but I must tell you again what I told you longago: you have passed completely out of my life. If you had not done sobefore, the publication of that article in the /Zeit Geist/ wouldforce me to tell you that you had done so now. To me my religion hasalways been a living thing; my Bible has been my guide. You trampledupon the one some months ago, you have trampled on the other now. Youshocked me, Mr. Holland."

"I have always loved you, Phyllis. I think I love you better than Iever did, if that were possible," said he. "I am overwhelmed withgrief at the thought of the barrier which your fancy has built upbetween us."

"Fancy?"

"Your fancy, dear child. I feel that the barrier which you fancy isnow between us is unworthy of you."

"What? Do you mean to say that you think that my detestation--my--myhorror of your sneers at the Bible, which I believe to be the Word ofGod--of the contempt you have heaped upon the Church which I believeto be God's agent on earth for the salvation of men's souls--do youthink that my detestation of these is a mere girlish fancy?"

"I don't think that, Phyllis. What I think is, that if you had everloved me you would be ready to stand by my side now--to be guided byme in a matter which I have made the study of my life."

"In such matters as these--the value or the worthlessness of theBible; the value or the worthlessness of the Church--I require noguide, Mr. Holland. I do not need to go to a priest to ask if it iswrong to steal, to covet another's goods, to honor my father---- Oh, Icannot discuss what is so very obvious. The Bible I regard asprecious; you think that you are in a position to edit it as if itwere an ordinary book. The Church I regard as the Temple of God uponthe earth; you think that it exists only to be sneered at? and yet youtalk of fanciful barriers between us!"

"I consider it the greatest privilege of a man on earth to be aminister of the Church of Christ."

"Why, then, do you take every opportunity of pointing to it as thegreatest enemy to Christianity?"

"The Church of to-day represents some results of the greatReformation. That Reformation was due to the intelligence of those menwho perceived that it had become the enemy to freedom; the enemy tothe development of thought; the enemy to the aspirations of a greatnation. The nation rejoiced in the freedom of thought of which thegreat charter was the Reformation. But during the hundreds of yearsthat have elapsed since that Reformation, some enormous changes havebeen brought about in the daily life of the people of this greatnation. The people are being educated, and the Church must sooner orlater face the fact that as education spreads church-going decreases.Why is that, I ask you?"

"Because men are growing more wicked every day."

"But they are not. Crime is steadily decreasing as education isspreading, and yet people will not go to church. They will go tolectures, to bands of music, to political demonstrations, but theywill not go to church. The reason they will not go is because theyknow that they will hear within the church the arguments of men whoseminds are stunted by a narrow theological course against everydiscovery of science or result of investigation. You know how the bestminds in the Church ridiculed the discoveries of geology, of biology,ending, of course, by reluctantly accepting the teachings of the menwhom they reviled."

"You said all that in your paper, Mr. Holland, and yet I tell you thatI abhor your paper--that I shuddered when I read what you wrote aboutthe Bible. The words that are in the Bible have given to millions ofpoor souls a consolation that science could never bring to them."

"And those consoling words are what I would read to the people everyday of the week, not the words which may have a certain historicalsignification, but which breathe a very different spirit from thespirit of Christianity. Phyllis, it is to be the aim of my life tohelp on the great work of making the Church once more the Church ofthe people--of making it in reality the exponent of Christianity andJudaism. That is my aim, and I want you to be my helper in this work."

"And I tell you that I shall oppose you by all the means in my power,paltry though my power may be."

Her eyes were flashing and she made a little automatic motion with herhands, as if sweeping something away from before her. He had becomepale and there was a light in his eyes. He felt angry at this girl whohad shown herself ready to argue with him,--in her girlish fashion, ofcourse,--and who, after listening to his incontrovertible arguments,fell back resolutely upon a platitude, and considered that she had gotthe better of him.

She had got the better of him, too; that was the worst of it; hisobject in going to her, in arguing with her, was to induce her topromise to marry him, and he had failed.

It was on this account he was angry. He might have had a certainconsciousness of succeeding as a theologian, but he had undoubtedlyfailed as a lover. He was angry. He was as little accustomed as otherclergymen to be withstood by a girl.

"I am disappointed in you," said he. "I fancied that when I--whenI----" It was in his mind to say that he had selected her out of alarge number of candidates to be his helpmeet, but he pulled himselfup in time, and the pause that he made seemed purely emotional. "WhenI loved you and got your promise to love me in return, you would sharewith me all the glory, the persecution, the work incidental to thiscrusade on behalf of the truth, but now---- Ah! you can never haveloved me."

"Perhaps you are right, indeed," said she meekly. She was ready tocede him this point if he set any store by it.

"Take care," said he, with some measure of sternness. "Take care, ifyou fancy you love another man, that he may be worthy of you."

"I do not love another man, Mr. Holland," said she gently; scarcelyregretfully.

"Do you not?" said he, with equal gentleness. "Then I will hope."

"You will do very wrong."

"You cannot say that without loving someone else. I would not like tohear of your loving such a man as Herbert Courtland."

She started at that piece of impertinence, and then, without theslightest further warning, she felt her body blaze from head to foot.She was speechless with indignation.

"Perhaps I should have said a word of warning to you before." He hadnow assumed the calm dignity of a clergyman who knows what is due tohimself. "I am not one to place credence in vulgar gossip; I thoughtthat your father, perhaps, might have given you a hint. Mrs. Linton isundoubtedly a very silly woman. God forbid that I should ever hearrumor play with your name as I have heard it deal with hers."

His assumption of the clergyman's solemn dignity did not make hisremark less impertinent, considering that Ella Linton was her dearestfriend. And yet people were in the habit of giving George Hollandpraise for his tact. Such persons had never seen him angry, wounded,and anxious to wound.

There was a pause after he had spoken his tactless words. It wasbroken by a thrice-repeated cry from Phyllis.

"Lies! Lies! Lies!" she cried, facing him, the light of scorn in hereyes. "I tell you that you have listened to lies; you, a clergyman,have listened to lying gossip, and have repeated that lying gossip tome. You have listened like a wicked man, and you should be ashamed ofyour behavior, of your words, your wicked words. If Ella Linton werewicked, you would be responsible for it in the sight of God. You, aclergyman, whose duty it is to help the weak ones, to give counsel tothose who stand on the brink of danger; you speak your owncondemnation if you speak Ella Linton's. You have spent your time notin that practical work of the Church--that work which is done silentlyby those of her priests who are desirous of doing their duty; you havespent your time, not in this work, but in theorizing, in inventingvain sophistries to put in a book, and so cause people to talk aboutyou; whether they talk well or ill of you, you care not so long asthey talk; you have been doing this to gratify your own vanity,instead of doing your duty as a clergyman on behalf of the souls whichhave been intrusted to your keeping. Go away--go away! I am ashamed ofyou; I am ashamed of myself that I was ever foolish enough to allow myname to be associated with yours even for a single day. I shall never,never again enter the church where you preach. Go away! Go away!"

He stood before her with his hands by his sides as a man suddenlyparalyzed might stand. He had never recovered from the shock producedby her crying of the word "lies! lies! lies!" He was dazed. He wasbarely conscious of the injustice which she was doing him, for he feltthat he was not actuated by vanity, but sincerity in all that he hadhitherto preached and written regarding the Church. Still he had notthe power to interrupt her in her accusation; he had not the power totell her that she was falsely accusing him.

When her impassioned denunciation of him had come to an end, and shestood with flaming face, one outstretched hand pointing to the door,he recovered himself--partially; and curiously enough, his firstthought was that he had never seen a more beautiful girl in a moregraceful attitude. She had insulted him grossly; she had behaved asnone of the daughters of Philistia would behave in regard to him--him,a clergyman of the Church of England; but he forgot her insults, herinjustice, and his only thought was that she was surely the mostbeautiful woman in the world.

"I am amazed!" he found words to say at last. "I am amazed! I feltcertain that you at least would do me justice. I thought--"

"I will not listen to you," she cried. "Every word you utter increasesmy self-contempt at having heard you say so much as you have said. Goaway, please. No, I will go--I will go."

And she did go.

He found himself standing in the middle of an empty room.

Never before had he been so treated by man or woman; and the worst ofthe matter was that he had an uneasy feeling that he had deserved thescorn which she had heaped upon him. He knew perfectly well that hehad no right to speak to her as he had spoken regarding her friend,Ella Linton. Rumor--what right had he to suggest to her, as he hadcertainly done, that the evil rumors regarding her friend werebelieved by him at least?

Yes, he felt that she had treated him as he deserved; and when hetried to get up a case for himself, so to speak, by dwelling upon theinjustice which she had done him in saying that he had been actuatedby vanity, whereas he knew that he had been sincere, he completelyfailed.

But his greatest humiliation was due to a consciousness of his ownwant of tact. Any man may forget himself so far as to lose his temperupon occasions; but no man need hope to get on in the world who so farforgets himself as to allow other people to perceive that he has losthis temper.

What was he to do?

What was left for him to do but to leave the house with as littledelay as possible?

He went down the stairs, and a footman opened the hall door for him.He felt a good deal better in the open air. Even the large drawingroom which he had left was beginning to feel stuffy. (He was asingularly sensitive man.)

On reaching the rectory he found two letters waiting for him. One fromthe bishop requesting an early interview with him. The other wasalmost identical but it was signed "Stephen Linton."

CHAPTER XXVI.

DID HE SAY SOMETHING MORE ABOUT RUTH?

Herbert Courtland had found his way to her drawing room on theafternoon of his return to London; and it was upon this circumstancerather than upon her own unusual behavior in the presence of GeorgeHolland that Phyllis was dwelling so soon as she had recovered fromher tearful outburst on her bed. (She had, of course, run into herbedroom and thrown herself upon the bed the moment that she had leftthe presence of the man whom she had once promised to marry.) She hadwept in the sheer excitement of the scene in which she had played thepart of leading lady; it had been a very exciting scene, and it hadoverwhelmed her; she had not accustomed herself to the use of suchvehement language as she had found necessary to employ in order toadequately deal with Mr. Holland and that was how it came about thatshe was overwhelmed.

But so soon as she had partially recovered from her excitement, andhad dried her eyes, she began to think of the visit which had beenpaid to her, not by George Holland, but by Herbert Courtland. Shedwelt, moreover, less upon his amusing account of the cruise of the/Water Nymph/ than upon the words which he had said to her in regardto his last visit. She had expressed her surprise at seeing him. Hadhe not gone on a yachting cruise to Norway? Surely five days was underrather than over the space of time necessary to thoroughly enjoy thefine scenery of the fjords.

He had then laughed and said that he had received a letter at Leithmaking his immediate return absolutely necessary.

"How disappointed you must have felt!" she suggested, with somethinglike a smile upon her face.

His smile was broader as he said:

"Well, I'm not so sure that my disappointment was such as would tendto make me take a gloomy view of life for an indefinite time. LordEarlscourt is a very good sort of fellow; but----"

"Yes; I quite agree with you," said she, still smiling. "Knowing whatfollows that 'but' in everyone's mind, we all thought it ratherstrange on your part to start on that cruise. And so suddenly youseemed to make up your mind, too. You never hinted to me thatafternoon that you were anxious to see Norway under the personalconductorship of Lord Earlscourt."

"It would have been impossible for me to give you such a hint," saidhe. "I had no idea myself that I wanted greatly to go to Norway, untilI met Earlscourt."

"So we gathered from what papa told us when he came in about midnight,bringing Mr. Linton with him," said Phyllis. "Ella had come across tome before nine, to ask me to go with her to 'Romeo and Juliet' atCovent Garden, forgetting that I was dining with Lady Earlscourt."

"But you had not returned from the dinner party at nine," hesuggested. She had certainly succeeded in arousing his interest, evenin such ordinary details as those she was describing.

"Of course not; but Ella waited for me; I suppose she did not want toreturn to her lonely house. She seemed so glad when I came in that shemade up her mind to stay with me all night."

"Oh! But she didn't stay with you?"

"Of course not, when her husband appeared. It was so funny--sostartling."

"So funny--so startling! Yes, it must have been--funny."

"Ella was wearing such a lovely frock--covered with diamonds. I wishthat you had seen her."

"Ah!"

"I never saw anything so lovely. I told her that it was a bridaltoilet."

"A bridal toilet?"

"We thought it such a pity that it should be wasted. She didn't go tothe opera, of course."

"And it was wasted--wasted?"

"Oh, no! When her husband came in with papa, about midnight, welaughed and said that her dressing herself in that way was aninspiration; that something told her that he was returning."

"Probably a telegram from Paris had told her; that was the source ofher inspiration."

"Oh, no! what was so funny about the matter was that Mr. Linton'sservant bungled sending the telegram, so that Ella knew nothing of hiscoming."

"Great Heavens!"

"You have not seen Ella since your return?"

"No; I have been with her husband on business all day, however."

"And of course he would not have occasion to refer to so casual anincident as his wife's wearing a new toilet."

"Of course not. The word inspiration has no place in a commercialvocabulary, Miss Ayrton."

"But it is a good word elsewhere, Mr. Courtland.

"Yes, it has its meaning. You think that it may be safely applied tothe wearing of an effective toilet. I wonder if you would think ofapplying it to the words you said to me on the last evening I washere?"

It was in a very low tone, and after a long pause, that she said:

"I hope if what I told you Mrs. Haddon said was an inspiration, it wasa good one. I felt that I must tell you, Mr. Courtland, though I fearthat I gave you some pain--great pain. I know what it is to bereminded of an irreparable loss."

"Pain--pain?" said he. Then he raised his eyes to hers. "I wonder ifyou will ever know what effect your words had upon me, Miss Ayrton?"he added. "I don't suppose that you will ever know; but I tell youthat it would be impossible for me ever to cease to think of you as mygood angel."

She flushed slightly, very slightly, before saying:

"How odd that Ella should call me her good angel, too, on that samenight!"

"And she spoke the truth, if ever truth was spoken," he cried.

Her face was very serious as she said:

"Of course I don't understand anything of this, Mr. Courtland."

"No," he said; "it would be impossible for you to understand anythingof it. It would be impossible for you to understand how I feel towardyou--how I have felt toward you since you spoke those words in thisroom; those words that came to me as the light from heaven came toSaul of Tarsus; words of salvation. Believe me, I shall never forgetthem."

"I am so glad," said she. "I am glad, though, as I say, I understandnothing."

Then there had been a long interval of silence before she had askedhim something further regarding the yachting party.

And now she was lying on her bed trying to recall every word that hehad spoken, and with a dread over her that what he had said would bearout that terrible suspicion which she had prayed to God to forgive herfor entertaining on that night when Ella had gone home with herhusband.

No rumor had reached her ears regarding the closeness of the intimacyexisting between Mr. Courtland and Mrs. Linton; and thus it was thatwhen that suspicion had come upon her, after Ella had left her, shefelt that she was guilty of something akin to a crime--a horriblebreach of friendship, only to be expiated by tears and prayers.

That terrible thought had been borne upon her as a suggestion toaccount for much that she could not understand in the words and thebehavior of Ella during that remarkable evening; and, in spite of herremorse and her prayers, she could not rid herself of it. It left itsimpression upon her mind, upon her heart. Hitherto she had only heardabout the way an unlawful passion sweeps over two people, causing themto fling to the winds all considerations of home, of husband, ofreligion, of honor; and she felt it to be very terrible to be broughtface to face with such a power; it seemed to her as terrible as to bebrought face to face with that personal Satan in whom she believed.

It only required such a hint as that which had come from GeorgeHolland to set her smoldering suspicion--suspicion of a suspicion--ina flame. It had flamed up before him in those words which she hadspoken to him. If Ella were guilty, he, George Holland, was to be heldresponsible for her guilt.

But Ella was not guilty; Herbert Courtland was not guilty.

"No, no, no!" she cried, in the solitude of her chamber. "She did nottalk as a guilty woman would talk; and he--he went straight out of theroom where I had told him what Mrs. Haddon said about his mother, hissister--straight aboard the yacht; and she----"

All at once the truth flashed upon her; the truth--she felt that itwas the truth; and both of them were guiltless. It was for HerbertCourtland that Ella had put on that lovely dress; but she wasguiltless, he was guiltless. (Curiously enough, she felt quite ashappy in the thought that he was guiltless.) Yes, Ella had come to herwearing that dress instead of waiting for him, and he---- Ah, she nowknew what he had meant when he had called her his good angel. She hadsaved him.

She flung herself on her knees in a passion of thanksgiving to God forhaving made her the means of saving a soul from hell--yes, for thetime being.

And then she began to think what she should do in order that that soulshould be saved forever.

It was time for her to dress for dinner before she had finishedworking out that great question, possibly the greatest question thatever engrossed the attention of a young woman: how to save the soul ofa man, not temporarily, but eternally.

And all the time that she was in her room alone she had not a singlethought regarding the scene through which she had passed with the Rev.George Holland. She had utterly forgotten him and his wickedness--hisvain sophistries. She had forgotten all that he had said to her--hismonstrous calumny leveled against her dearest friend; she even forgother unjust treatment of George Holland and her rudeness--herunparalleled rudeness toward him. She was thinking over something verymuch more important. What was a question of mere etiquette compared tothe question of saving a man's soul alive?

But when she dined opposite to her father it was to the visit ofGeorge Holland she referred rather than to the visit of HerbertCourtland.

"What had George Holland got to say that was calculated to interestyou?" her father inquired. The peaches were on the table and theservant had, of course, left the room.

"He had nothing to say of interest to me," she replied.

"Nothing, except, of course, that his respectful aspiration to marryyou----" suggested Mr. Ayrton.

"You need not put the 'except' before that, my papa," said she.

"And yet I have for some years been under the impression that evenwhen a man whom she recoils from marrying talks to a young woman abouthis aspirations in the direction of marriage, she is more interestedthan she would be when the man whom she wishes to marry talks on someother topic."

"At any rate, George Holland didn't interest me so long as he talkedof his aspirations. Then he talked of--well, of something else, andI'm afraid that I was rude to him. I don't think that he will comehere again. I know that I shall never go to St. Chad's again."

"Heavens above! This is a pretty story to tell a father. How were yourude to him? I should like to have a story of your rudeness, merely tohold up against you for a future emergency."

"I pointed to the door in the attitude of the heroine of one of theold plays, and when he didn't leave at once, I left the room."

"You mean to say that you left him standing in the middle of the roomwhile you went away?"

"I told you that I was rude."

"Rude, yes; but it's one thing to omit to leave cards upon a hostess,and quite another to stare her in the face when she bows to you in thestreet. It's one thing to omit sending a man a piece of yourbridescake, and quite another to knock off his hat in the street.Rude, oh, my dear Phyllis!"

"If you knew what he said about--about someone whom I love--if youknew how angry I was, you would not say that I acted so atrociously,after all."

"Oh! Did he say something more about Ruth?"

"He said too much--far too much; I cannot tell you. If any other mansaid so much I would treat him in the same way. You must not ask meanything further, please."

"Rude and unrepentant, shocking and not ashamed. This is terrible. Butperhaps it's better that you should be rude when you're young andbeautiful; later on, when you're no longer young, it will not bepermitted in you. I'll question you no further. Only how aboutSunday?"

"I have promised Ella to go with her party to The Mooring for a week."

"That will get over the matter of the church, but only for one Sunday.How about the next Sundays--until the prorogation? Now, don't say theobvious 'sufficient unto the Sunday is the sermon thereof.' "

"I certainly will not. I have done forever with St. Chad's, unless thebishop interferes and we get a new rector."

"Then that's settled. And so we can drink our coffee in the drawingroom with easy minds. Rude! Great Heavens!"

CHAPTER XXVII.

THAT'S WHY WOMEN DO NOT MAKE GOOD PHILOSOPHERS.

She had prayed to God that he might be kept away from her; butimmediately afterward, as has already been stated, when she began tothink over the situation of the hour, she came to the conclusion thatshe had been a little too precipitate in her petition. She felt thatshe would like to ask him how it had come about that he had playedthat contemptible part. Such a contemptible part! Was it on record,she wondered, that any man had ever played that contemptible part? Torun away! And she had designed and worn that wonderful toilet; such atoilet as Helen might have worn (she thought); such a toilet asCleopatra might have worn (she fancied); such a toilet as--as SarahBernhardt (she was certain) would wear when impersonating a woman whohad lost her soul for the love of a man. Oh, had ever woman been sohumiliated! She thought of the way Sarah Bernhardt would act the partof one of those women if her lover had run away from her outstretchedarms,--and such a toilet,--only it was not on record that the lover ofany one of them had ever run away. The lovers had been only toofaithful; they had remained to be hacked to pieces with a mediaevalknife sparkling with jewels, or to swallow some curious poison out ofa Byzantine goblet. She would have a word or two to say to HerbertCourtland when he returned. She would create the part of the womanwhose lover has humiliated her.

This was her thought until her husband told her that he had sent thatletter to Herbert Courtland, and he would most likely dine with themon the evening of his return.

Then it was it occurred to her that Herbert Courtland might by somecurious mischance--mischances occurred in many of Sarah Bernhardt'splays--have come to hear that she had paid that rather singular visitto Phyllis Ayrton, just at the hour that she had named in that letterwhich she had written to him. What difference did that make in regardto his unparalleled flight? He was actually aboard the yacht /WaterNymph/ before she had rung for her brougham to take her to Phyllis'.He had been the first to fly.

Then she began to think, as she had thought once before, of herhusband's sudden return,--the return of a husband at the exact hournamed in the letter to a lover was by no means an unknown incident ina play of Sarah Bernhardt's,--and before she had continued upon thiscourse of thought for many minutes, she had come to the conclusionthat she would not be too hard on Herbert Courtland.

She was not too hard on him.

He had an interview with Mr. Linton at the city offices of the greatTaragonda Creek Mine. (The mine had, as has already been stated, beendiscovered by Herbert Courtland during his early explorations inAustralia, and he had acquired out of his somewhat slender resources--he had been poor in those days--about a square mile of the wretchedcountry where it was situated, and had then communicated his discoveryto Stephen Linton, who understood the science and arts necessary forutilizing such a discovery, the result being that in two yearseveryone connected with the Taragonda Mine was rich. The sweepings ofthe crushing rooms were worth twenty thousand pounds a year: andHerbert Courtland had spent about ten thousand pounds--a fourth of hisyear's income--in the quest of the meteor-bird to make a feather fanfor Ella Linton.) And when the business for which he had been summonedto London had been set /en train/, he had paid a visit to hispublishers. (They wondered could he give them a novel on New Guinea.If he introduced plenty of dialect and it was sufficientlyunintelligible it might thrust the kail yard out of the market; butthe novel must be in dialect, they assured him.) After promising togive the matter his attention, he paid his visit to Phyllis, and thenwent to his rooms to dress; for when Stephen Linton had said:

"Of course you'll dine with us to-night: I told Ella you would come."

He had said, "Thanks; I shall be very pleased."

"Come early; eight sharp," Mr. Linton had added.

And thus it was that at five minutes to eight o'clock Herbert foundhimself face to face alone with the woman whom he had so grosslyhumiliated.

Perhaps she was hard on him after all: she addressed him as Mr.Courtland. She felt that she, at any rate, had returned to thestraight path of duty when she had done that. (It was HerbertCourtland who had talked to Phyllis of the modern philosopher--apolitical philosopher or a philosophical politician--who, writingagainst compromise, became the leading exponent of that science, andhad hoped to solve the question of a Deity by using a small g inspelling God. On the same principle Ella had called Herbert "Mr.Courtland.")

He felt uneasy. Was he ashamed of himself, she wondered?

"Stephen will be down in a moment, Mr. Courtland," she said.

He was glad to hear it.

"How warm it has been all day!" she added. "I thought of you toilingaway over figures in the city, when you might have been breathing thelovely air of the sea. It was too bad of Stephen to bring you back."

"I assure you I was glad to get his letter at Leith," said he. "I wasthinking for the two days previous how I could best concoct a telegramto myself at Leith in order that I might have some excuse for runningaway."

"That is assuming that running away needs some excuse," said she.

There was a considerable pause before he said, in a low tone:

"Ella, Ella, I know everything--that night. We were saved."

At this moment Mr. Linton entered the room. He was, after all, notlate, he said: it wanted a minute still of being eight o'clock. He hadjust been at the telephone to receive a reply regarding a box atCovent Garden. In the earlier part of the day none had been vacant, hehad been told; but the people at the box office promised to telephoneto him if any became vacant in the course of the afternoon. He hadjust come from the telephone, and had secured a good enough box on thefirst tier. He hoped that Ella would not mind "Carmen"; there was tobe a new /Carmen/.

Ella assured him that she could not fail to be interested in any/Carmen/, new or old. It was so good of him to take all that troublefor her, knowing how devoted she was to opera. She hoped that Herbert--she called him Herbert in the presence of her husband--was in a/Carmen/ mood.

"Yes," said Herbert; "it's that philosophy which consists in anabsence of philosophy--not the worst kind, either, it seems to me.It's the philosophy of impulse."

"I thought that the aim of all philosophy was to check every impulse,"said Ella.

"So it is; that's why women do not make good philosophers," said herhusband.

"Or, for that matter, good mothers of philosophers," said Herbert.

"That's rather a hard saying, isn't it?" said the other man.

"No," said his wife; "it's as transparent as air."

"London air in November?" suggested her husband.

"He means that there's no such thing."

"As air in London in November? I'm with him there."

"He means that there's no such thing as a good philosopher."

"Then I hope he has an appetite for dinner. The man without philosophyusually has."

The butler had just announced dinner.

There was not much talk among them of philosophy so long as thefootmen were floating round them like mighty tropical birds. Theytalked of the House of Commons instead. A new measure was to beintroduced the next night: something that threatened beer andsatisfied no party; not even the teetotalers--only the wives of theteetotalers. Then they had a few words regarding George Holland'sarticle in the /Zeit Geist/. Mr. Linton seemed to some extentinterested in the contentions of the rector of St. Chad's; and Herbertagreed with him when he expressed the opinion that the two greatestproblems that the Church had to face were: How to get people withintelligence to go to church, and what to do with them when they werethere.

In an hour they were in their box at Covent Garden listening to thesensuous music of "Carmen," and comparing the sauciness of thecharming little devil who sang the habanera, with the piquancy of thelast /Carmen/ but three, and with the refinement of the one who hadmade so great a success at Munich. They agreed that the savagery ofthe newest was very fascinating,--Stephen Linton called it womanly,--but they thought they should like to hear her in the third act beforepronouncing a definite opinion regarding her capacity.

Then the husband left the box to talk to some people who were seatedopposite.

"You know everything?" she said.

"Everything," said Herbert. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"For running away? Oh, Bertie, you cannot have heard all."

"For forcing you to write me that letter--can you ever forgive me?"

"Oh, the letter? Oh, Bertie, we were both wrong--terribly wrong. Butwe were saved."

"Yes, we were saved. Thank God--thank God!"

"That was my first cry, Bertie, when I felt that I was safe--that weboth had been saved: Thank God! It seemed as if a miracle had beendone to save us."

"So it was--a miracle."

"I spent the night praying that you might be kept away from me, Bertie--away for ever and ever. I felt that I was miserably weak; I feltthat I could not trust myself; but now that you are here beside meagain I feel strong. Oh, Bertie, we know ourselves better now than wedid a week ago--is it only a week ago? It seems months--years--alifetime!"

"Yes, I think that we know each other better now, Ella. That nightaboard the yacht all the history of the past six months seemed to comebefore me. I saw what a wretch I had been, and I was overwhelmed withself-contempt."

"It was all my fault, dear Bertie. I was foolish--vain--a mere woman!Do not say that I did not take pride in what I called, in my secretmoments, my conquest. Oh, Bertie! I had sunk into the depths. And thenthat letter! But we were saved, and I feel that we have been savedforevermore. I feel strong by your side now. And you, I know, feelstrong, Bertie?"

"I have awakened from my dream, Ella. You called her your good angeltoo. Surely it was my good angel that sent me to her that evening!"

Ella was staring at him. He said that he knew everything. It appearedthat she was the one who was not in the fortunate position of knowingall.

She stared.

"Phyllis Ayrton--you were with her?"

"For half an hour. She was unconscious of the effect her words hadupon me,--the words of another woman,--leading me back to the side ofthose who have gone forever. I listened to her, and then it was that Iawoke. She did not know. How could she tell that the light of heavenwas breaking in upon a soul that was on the brink of hell? She savedme."

"She told me nothing of that." There was a curious eagerness in hervoice. "She told me nothing. Oh, how could she tell me anything? Sheknew nothing of it herself. She looked on you as an ordinary visitor.She told you that I fled to her. Oh, Bertie, Bertie! those hours thatI passed--the terrible conflict. But when I felt her arms about me Iknew that I was safe. Then Stephen entered. I thought that we werelost--you and I; that he had returned to find you waiting. I don'tknow if he had a suspicion. At any rate we were saved, and by her--dear Phyllis. Oh, will she ever know, I wonder, what it is to be awoman? Bertie, she is my dearest friend--I told you so. I thought ofher and you--long ago. Oh, why should you not think of her now thatyou have awakened and are capable of thought--the thought of a saneman?"

He sat with an elbow resting on the front of the opera box, his headupon his hand. He was not looking at her, but beyond her. He seemed tobe lost in thought.

Was he considering that curious doctrine which she had propounded,that if a man really loves a woman he will marry her dearest friend?He made no reply to her. The point required a good deal of thought,apparently.

"You hear me, Bertie--dear Bertie?" she said.

He only nodded.

She remembered that, upon a previous occasion, when she had made thesame suggestion to him, he had put it aside as unworthy of comment--unworthy of a moment's thought. How could it be possible for him,loving her as he did, to admit the possibility of another'sattractiveness in his eyes? The idea had seemed ludicrous to him.

But now he made no such protest. He seemed to consider her suggestionand to think it--well, worthy of consideration; and this should havebeen very pleasing to her; for did it not mean that she had gained herpoint?

"You will think over it, Bertie?" she said. Her voice was now scarcelyso full of eagerness as it had been before. Was that because she didnot want to weary him by her persistence? Even the suggestion to a manthat he should love a certain woman should, she knew, be made withtact.

"I have been thinking over it," he said at last; but only after a longpause.

"Oh, I am so glad!"

And she actually believed that she was glad.

"I thought about her aboard the yacht."

"Did you? I fancied that you would think of---- But I am so glad!"

"I thought of her as my good angel. Those words which she said tome--"

"She has been your good angel, and I--"

"Ella, Ella, she has been our good angel--you said so."

"And don't you think that I meant it? Some women--she is one of them--are born to lead men upward; others---- Ah, there, it is on the stage:/Carmen/, the enchantress, /Michaela/, the good angel. But I am soglad! She is coming to stay with us up the river; you must be with ustoo. You cannot possibly know her yet. But a week by her side--youwill, I know, come to perceive what she is--the sweetest--the mostperfect!"

Still he made no reply. He was looking earnestly at the conductor, whowas pulling his musicians together for the second act.

"You will come to us, Bertie?" she whispered.

He shook his head.

"I dare not promise," said he. "I feel just now like a man who isstill dazed, on being suddenly awakened. I have not yet begun to seethings as they are. I am not sure of myself. I will let you know lateron."

Then the conductor tapped his desk, and those of the audience who hadleft their places returned. Stephen Linton slipped into his chair; hiswife took up her lorgnette as the first jingle of the tambourines washeard, and the curtain rose upon the picturesque tawdriness of thecompany assembled at the /Senor Lois Pastia's/ place of entertainment.

Ella gave all her attention to the opera--to that tragedy of theweakness of the flesh, albeit the spirit may be willing to listen togood. Alas! that the flesh should be so full of color and charm andseduction, while the spirit is pale, colorless, and set to music in aminor key!

/Carmen/ flashed about the stage under the brilliant lights, lookinglike a lovely purple butterfly--a lovely purple oriole endowed withthe double glory of plumage and song, and men whose hearts beat inunison with the heart-beats of that sensuous music through which sheexpressed herself, loved her; watched her with ravished eyes; heardher with ravished ears--yes, as men love such women; until the sensesrecover from the intoxication of her eyes and her limbs and her voice.And in the third act the sweet /Michaela/ came on with her song of thedelight of purity, and peace, and home. She sang it charmingly,everyone allowed, and hoped that /Carmen/ would sing as well in thelast act as she had sung in the others.

Ella Linton kept her eyes fixed upon the stage to the very end of all.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE CHURCH IS NOT NEUROTIC.

When George Holland received his two letters and read them he laidthem side by side and asked himself what each of them meant.

Well, he could make a pretty good guess as to what the bishop's meant.The bishop meant business. But what did Mr. Linton want with him? Mr.Linton was a business man, perhaps he meant business too. Business menoccasionally mean business; they more frequently only pretend to doso, in order to put off their guard the men they are trying to get thebetter of.

He would have an interview with the bishop; so much was certain; andthat interview was bound to be a difficult one--for the bishop. It waswith some degree of pride that he anticipated the conflict. He wouldwithdraw nothing that he had written. Let all the forces of the earthbe leagued against him, he would abate not a jot--not a jot. (By theforces of the earth he meant the Bench of Bishops, which was scarcelydoing justice to the bishops--or to the forces of the earth.)

Yes, they might deprive him of his living, but that would make nodifference to him. Not a jot--not a jot! They might persecute him tothe death. He would be faithful unto death to the truths he hadendeavored to spread abroad. He felt that they were truths.

But that other letter, which also asked for an interview at hisearliest convenience the next day, was rather more puzzling to GeorgeHolland. He had never had any but the most casual acquaintance withMr. Linton--such an acquaintance as one has with one's host at a housewhere one has occasionally dined. He had dined at Mr. Linton's housemore than once; but then he had been seated in such proximity to Mrs.Linton as necessitated his remoteness from Mr. Linton. Therefore hehad never had a chance of becoming intimate with that gentleman. Why,then, should that gentleman desire an early interview with him?

It was certainly curious that within a few minutes of his havingreferred to Mrs. Linton, in the presence of Phyllis Ayrton, in a waythat had had a very unhappy result so far as he was concerned, heshould receive a letter from Mrs. Linton's husband asking for an earlyinterview.

He seated himself in his study chair and began to think what thewriter of that letter might have to say to him.

He had not to ask himself if it was possible that Mr. Linton mighthave a word or two to say to him, respecting the word or two which he,George Holland, had just said about Mrs. Linton; for George knew verywell that, though during the previous week or two he had heard somepersons speaking lightly of Mrs. Linton, coupling her name with thename of Herbert Courtland, yet he had never had occasion to coupletheir names together except during the previous half hour, so that itcould not be Mr. Linton's intention to take him to task, so to speak,for his indiscretion--his slander, Phyllis might be disposed to termit.

Upon that point he was entirely satisfied. But he was not certain thatMr. Linton did not want to consult him on some matter having more orless direct bearing upon the coupling together of the names of Mrs.Linton and Mr. Courtland. People even in town are fond of consultingclergymen upon curious personal matters--matters upon which a lawyeror a doctor should rather be consulted. He himself had neverencouraged such confidences. What did he keep curates for? His curateshad saved him many a long hour of talk with inconsequent men andillogical women who had come to him with their stories. What were tohim the stories of men whose wives were giving them trouble? What wereto him the stories of wives who had difficulties with their housemaidsor who could not keep their boys from reading pirate literature? Hiscurates managed the domestic department of his church for him. Theycould give any earnest inquirer at a moment's notice the addresses ofseveral civil-spoken women (elderly) who went out as mother's helps bythe day. They were very useful young men and professed to like thiswork. He would not do them the injustice to believe that they spokethe truth in that particular way.

He could not fancy for what purpose Mr. Linton wished to see him. Buthe made up his mind that, if Mr. Linton was anxious that his wifeshould be remonstrated with, he, George Holland, would decline toaccept the duty of remonstrating with her. He was wise enough to knowthat he did not know very much about womankind; but he knew too muchto suppose that there is any more thankless employment thanremonstrating with an extremely pretty woman on any subject, butparticularly on the subject of a very distinguished man to whom sheconsiders herself bound by ties of the truest friendship.

But then there came upon him with the force of a great shock therecollection of what Phyllis had said to him on this very point:

"/If Ella Linton were wicked, you should be held responsible for it inthe sight of God/."

Those were her words, and those words cut asunder the last strand ofwhatever tie there had been between him and Phyllis.

His duty as a clergyman intrusted with the care of the souls of thepeople, he had neglected that, she declared with startling vehemence.He had been actuated by vanity in publishing his book--his article inthe /Zeit Geist Review/--she had said so; but there she had beenwrong. He felt that she had done him a great injustice in thatparticular statement, and he tried to make his sense of this injusticetake the place of the uneasy feeling of which he was conscious, whenhe thought over her other words. He knew that he was not actuated byvanity in adopting the bold course that was represented by hiswritings. He honestly believed that his efforts were calculated towork a great reform in the Church. If not in the Church, outside it.

But his duty in regard to the souls of the people---- Oh! it was themerest sophistry to assume that such responsibility on the part of aclergyman is susceptible of being particularized. It should, he felt,be touched upon, if at all, in a very general way. Did that youngwoman expect that he should preach a sermon to suit the special caseof every individual soul intrusted (according to her absurd theory) tohis keeping?

The idea was preposterous; it could not be seriously considered for amoment. She had allowed herself to be carried away by her affectionfor her friend to make accusations against him, in which even sheherself would not persist in her quieter moments.

He found it quite easy to prove that Phyllis had been in the wrong andthat he was in the right; but this fact did not prevent anintermittent recurrence during the evening of that feeling ofuneasiness, as those words of the girl, "/If Ella Linton were wicked,you would be held responsible for it in the sight of God/," buzzed inhis ears.

"Would she have me become an ordinary clergyman of the Church ofEngland?" he cried indignantly, as he switched on the light in hisbedroom shortly before midnight--for the rushlight in the cell of themodern man of God is supplied at a strength of so many volts. "Wouldshe have me become the model country parson, preaching to the squireand other yokels on Sunday, and chatting about their souls to wheezyGranfer this, and Gammer that?" He had read the works of Mr. ThomasHardy. "Does she suppose that I was made for such a life as that? PoorPhyllis! When will she awake from this dream of hers?"

Did he fancy that he loved her still? or was the pain that he felt,when he reflected that he had lost her, the result of his woundedvanity--the result of his feeling that people would say he had not hadsufficient skill, with all his cleverness, to retain the love of thegirl who had promised to be his wife?

Before going to bed he had written replies to the two letters. Thebishop had suggested an early hour for their interview--he had namedeleven o'clock as convenient to himself, if it would also suit Mr.Holland. Two o'clock was the hour suggested by Mr. Linton, if thathour would not interfere with the other engagements of Mr. Holland; sohe had written agreements to the suggestions of both hiscorrespondents.

At eleven o'clock exactly he drove through the gates of the Palace ofthe bishop, and with no faltering hand pulled the bell. (So, hereflected for an instant,--only an instant,--Luther had gone,somewhere or other, he forgot at the moment what was the exactlocality; but the occasion had been a momentous one in the history ofthe Church.)

He was cordially greeted by the bishop, who said:

"How do you do, Holland? I took it for granted that you were an earlyriser--that's why I ventured to name eleven."

"No hour could suit me better to-day," said George, accepting the seat--he perceived at once that it was a genuine Chippendale chairupholstered in old red morocco--to which his lordship made a motionwith his hand. He did not, however, seat himself until the bishop hadoccupied, which he did very comfortably, the corresponding chair atthe side of the study desk.

"I was anxious to have a chat with you about that book, and thatarticle of yours in the /Zeit Geist/, Holland," said the bishop. "Iwish you had written neither."

"/Litera scripta manet/," said George, with a smile.

One may quote Latin in conversation with a bishop without beingthought a prig. In a letter to the /Times/ and in conversation with abishop are the only two occasions in these unclassical days when onemay safely quote Latin or Greek.

"That's the worst of it," said the prelate, with a shake of his headthat was Early Norman. "Yes, you see a book isn't like a sermon.People don't remember a man's sermons against him nowadays; they dohis books, however."

"I was anxious to give you my opinion as early as possible," resumedthe bishop, "and that is, that what you have just published--the bookand the /Zeit Geist/ article--reflect--yes, in no inconsiderablemeasure--what I have long thought."

"I am flattered, indeed, my lord."

"You need not be, Holland. I believe that there are a large number ofthinking men in the Church who are trying to solve the problem withwhich you have so daringly grappled--the problem of how to induceintellectual men and women to attend the services of the church. I'mafraid that there is a great deal of truth in what you say about theChurch herself bearing responsibility for the existence of thisproblem."

"There is no setting aside that fact, my lord."

"Alas! that short-sighted policy has been the Church's greatest enemyfrom the earliest period. You remember what St. Augustine says? Ah,never mind just now. About your book--that's the matter before us justnow. I must say that I don't consider the present time the mostsuitable for the issue of that book, or that article in the /ZeitGeist/. You meant them to be startling. Well, they are startling.There are some complaints--nervous complaints--that require to bestartled out of the system; that's a phrase of Sir Richard's. He madeuse of it in regard to my neuralgia. 'We must surprise it out of thesystem,' said he, 'with a large dose of quinine.' The phrase seemed tome to be a very striking one. But the Church is not neurotic. Youcannot apply the surprise method to her system with any chance ofsuccess. That is wherein the publication of your article seems to meto be--shall we call it premature? It is calculated to startle; butyou cannot startle people into going to church, my dear Holland, andthat is, of course, the only object you hope to achieve. Your book andyour article were written with the sole object of bringing intelligentpeople to church. But it occurs to me, and I think it will occur toyou also, that if the article be taken seriously,--and it is meant tobe taken seriously,--it may be the means of keeping people away fromthe Church rather than bringing them to church. It may even be themeans of alienating from that fond, if somewhat foolish old mother ofours, many of her children who are already attached to her. I trust Idon't speak harshly."

"Your lordship speaks most kindly; but the truth--"

"Should be spoken as gently as possible when it is calculated towound, Holland; that is why I trust I am speaking gently now. Ah,Holland! there are the little children to be considered as well as theScribes and Pharisees. There are weaker brethren. You have heard ofthe necessity for considering the weaker brethren."

"I seem to have heard of nothing else since I entered the Church; allthe brethren are the weaker brethren."

"They are; I am one of the weaker brethren myself. It is all aquestion of comparison. I don't say that your article is likely tohave the effect of causing me to join the band of non-church-goers. Idon't at this moment believe that it will drive me to golf instead ofGospel; but I honestly do believe that it is calculated to do that tohundreds of persons who just now require but the smallest grain ofargument to turn the balance of their minds in favor of golf. Your aimwas not in that direction, I'm sure, Holland."

"My aim was to speak the truth, my lord."

"In order to achieve a noble object--the gathering of the stragglersinto the fold."

"That was my motive, my lord."

"You announce boldly that this old mother of ours is in a moribundcondition, in order that you may gather in as many of her scatteredchildren as possible to stand at her bedside? Ah, my dear Holland! themoribund brings together the wolves and the vultures and all unclean,hungry things to try and get a mouthful off those prostrate limbs ofhers--a mouthful while her flesh is still warm. I tell you this--I whohave from time to time during the last fifty years heard the howl ofthe hyena, seen the talons of the vulture at the door of her chamber.They fancied that the end could not be far off, that no more strengthwas left in that aged body that lay prone for the moment. But I haveheard the howling wane into the distance and get lost in the outerdarkness when the old Church roused herself and went forth to face thesnarling teeth--the eager talons. There is life in this mighty oldmother of ours still. New life comes to her, not as it did to thefabled hero of old, by contact with the earth, but by communing withheaven. The bark of the wolf, the snarl of the hyena, may be heard inthe debate which the Government have encouraged in the House ofCommons on the Church. Philistia rejoices. Let the movers in thisobscene tumult look to themselves. Have they the confidence of thepeople even as the Church has that confidence? Let them put it to thetest. I tell you, George Holland, the desert and the ditch, whosevomit those men are who now move against us in Parliament, shallreceive them once more before many months have passed. The Church onwhom they hoped to prey shall witness their dispersal, never again toreturn. I know the signs. I know what the present silence throughoutthe country means. The champion of God and the Church has drawn hisbreath for the conflict. His teeth are set--his weapon is in his hand--you will see the result within a year. We shall have a government inpower, a government whose power will not be dependent on the faddistsand the self-seekers--the ignorant, the blatant bellowers of pitifulplatitudes, the platform loafers who call themselves labor-leaders,but whom the real laborers repudiate. Mark my words, their doom issealed; back to the desert and the ditch! My dear Holland, pardon thisdigression. I feel that I need say nothing more to you than I havealready said. The surprise system of therapeutics is not suited to theexisting ailments of the Church. Caution is what is needed if youwould not defeat your own worthy object, which, I know, is to givefresh vitality to the Church."

"That is certainly my object, my lord; only let me say that--"

"My dear Holland, I will not let you say anything. I asked you to comehere this morning in order that you might hear me. That is all that isnecessary for the present. Perhaps, upon some future occasion, I mayhave the privilege of hearing you in a discourse of some greaterlength than that which I have just inflicted upon you. I have givenyou my candid opinion of your writings, and you know that is theopinion of a man who has but one object in life--you know that it isthe opinion of an old man who has seen the beginning and the end ofmany movements in society and in the Church, and who has learned thatthe Church, for all her decrepitude, is yet the most stable thing thatthe world has seen. I have to thank you for coming to me, Holland."

"Your lordship has spoken to me with the greatest kindness," saidGeorge Holland, as his spiritual father offered him his hand.

In a few minutes he was in his hansom once more.

CHAPTER XXIX.

I KNOW THAT IT DOESN'T MATTER MUCH TO GOD WHAT A MAN THINKS ABOUTHIMSELF OR HIS SOUL.

For the next hour and a half the Rev. George Holland had anopportunity of considering his position as a clergyman of the Churchof England, and as one whose chief desire was to advance the interestsof the Church. His bishop had assumed that he had been single-mindedin his aims--that his sole object in writing that book and that paperhad been to cure the complaint from which the old Church wassuffering. His lordship had done him justice where Phyllis had donehim a gross injustice. What would Phyllis have said he wondered, ifshe had heard that concession, made not under pressure, butvoluntarily by probably the highest authority in the world, to his,George Holland's, singleness of aim?

But it was so like a girl to jump at conclusions--to assume that hehad been actuated by vanity in all that he had just done; that he wasdesirous only of getting people to talk about him--being regardlesswhether they spoke well of him or ill. He only wished that she couldhave heard the bishop. He felt as a man feels whose character has justbeen cleared in a court of law from an aspersion that has rested on itfor some time. He wondered if that truly noble man whom he wasprivileged to call his Father in God, would have any objection to givehim a testimonial to the effect that in his opinion,--the opinion ofhis Father in God,--there was no foundation for the accusation againsthim and his singleness of aim.

But the bishop knew that it was not vanity which had urged him towrite what he had written. The bishop understood men.

He was right; the bishop understood men so well as to be able toproduce in a few words upon the man who had just visited the palace,the impression that he believed that that man had been impelled by astrong sense of duty without a touch of vanity. He understood man sowell as to cause that same visitor of his to make a resolution neveragain to publish anything in the same strain as the /Zeit Geist/article, without first consulting with the bishop. George Holland hadpulled the bell at the palace gates with the hand of a Luther; but hehad left the presence of the bishop with the step of a Francis ofAssisi. He felt that anyone who would voluntarily give pain to sogentle a man as the bishop could only be a brute. He even felt thatthe bishop had shown himself to be his, George Holland's superior injudgment and in the methods which he employed. The bishop was not anoverrated man.

For a full hour in the silence and solitude of the reading room of hisclub he reflected upon the excellence of the bishop, and it was with asign of regret that he rose to keep his other appointment. He wouldhave liked to continue for another hour or two doing justice to thatgood man out of whose presence he had come.

Mr. Linton's office was not quite in the City. Twenty minutes drivebrought George Holland into the private room of Ella Linton's husband.

"It is very good of you to come to me, Mr. Holland," said Stephen."There seems to be a general idea that a clergyman should be at thebeck and call of everyone who has a whim to--what do they call it inIreland--to make his soul? That has never been my opinion; I havenever given any trouble to a clergyman since I was at school."

"It is the privilege of a minister to be a servant," said the Rev.George Holland.

"We were taught that at school--in connection with the Latin verb/ministro/," said Mr. Linton. "Well, Mr. Holland, I am glad that youtake such a view of your calling, for I am anxious that you should dome a great service."

He paused.

George Holland bent his head. He wondered if Mr. Linton wished tointrust him with the duty of observing his wife.

"The fact is, Mr. Holland," resumed Stephen Linton, "I have read yourbook and your paper in that review. The way you deal with a difficultquestion has filled me with admiration. You will, I need scarcely say,be outside the Church before long."

"I cannot allow you to assume that, Mr. Linton," said George gravely."I should be sorry to leave the Church. I cannot see that my leavingit is the logical sequence of anything that I have yet written. My aimis, as doubtless you have perceived, to bring about such reasonableand, after all, not radical changes in the Church system as shall makeher in the future a more potent agency for good than she has ever yetbeen, splendid though her services to humanity have been."

"Still you will find yourself outside the walls of your Church, Mr.Holland. And you will probably adopt the course which other sons ofthe Church have thought necessary to pursue when the stubborn oldthing refused to be reformed."

"If you suggest that I shall become a Dissenter, Mr. Linton--"

"I suggest nothing of the sort, though you dissent already from a goodmany of the fundamental practices of the Church, if I may be permittedthe expression. Now, I should like to make a provision for yourfuture, Mr. Holland."

"My dear sir, such a proposition seems to me to be a mostextraordinary one. I hope you will not think me rude in saying somuch. I have not suggested, Mr. Linton, as other clergymen might, thatyou mean an affront to me, but I don't think that anything would begained by prolonging--"

"Permit me to continue, and perhaps you may get a glimmer of gain. Mr.Holland, I am what people usually term a doomed man. So far as I cangather I have only about six months longer to live."

"Merciful Heaven!"

"Perhaps it is merciful on the part of Heaven to destroy a man when hehas reached the age of forty. We'll not go into that question justnow. I was warned by a doctor two years ago that I had not long tolive. It appears that my heart was never really a heart--that is tosay, it may have had its affections, its emotions, its passions, butpneumatically it is a failure; it was never a blood-pump. Six monthsago I was examined by the greatest authority in Europe, and hepronounced my doom. Three days ago I went to the leading specialist inLondon, and he told me I might with care live six months longer."

"My dear Mr. Linton, with what words can I express to you my deepfeeling for you?"

George Holland spoke after a prolonged pause, during which he staredat the white-faced man before him. A smile was upon that white face.George was deeply affected. He seemed to have stepped out of a worldof visions--a world that had a visionary Church, visionary preachers,visionary doctrines--all unsubstantial as words, which are but breath--into a world of realities--such realities as life and death and----Ah, there were no other realities in existence but the two: life anddeath.

And Mr. Linton continued smiling.

"You may gather that I wrote to you in order that you may help me tomake my soul. What a capital phrase! I didn't do that, Mr. Holland. Ihave never been sanguine about man and his soul. I know that itdoesn't matter much to God what a man thinks about himself or hissoul. It really doesn't matter much whether he believes or not that hehas a soul: God is the Principle of Right--the Fountain of Justice,and I'm willing to trust myself to God."

"That is true religion, Mr. Linton," said the clergyman.

"But I agree with those people who think that the world cannot get onwithout a Church. Now, I am sanguine enough to believe that a Churchfounded on your ideas of what is orthodox would be the means of doinga great deal of good. It would do a great deal of good to my wife, tostart with. She does not know that she is so soon to be a widow. Wereshe to know, the last months of my life would be miserable to both ofus. I have noticed with some pain, or should I say amusement? perhapsthat word would be the better--I have noticed, I say, that her life isone of complete aimlessness, and that, therefore, she is tempted tothink too much about herself. She is also tempted to have longings for--well, for temptation. Ah, she is a woman and temptation is in theway of women. /Qui parle d'amour, fait l'amour/: temptation comes tothe woman who thinks about being tempted. Now, I want to give hersomething to think about that shall lead her out of the thoughts oftemptation which I suppose come naturally to a daughter of Eve--thefirst woman who thought about temptation and was therefore tempted. Mywife is a perfectly good woman, and you will be surprised to find outwhen I am dead how fond of me she was--she will be the most surprisedof all. But she is a woman. If she were not so much of a woman I don'tsuppose I should ever have cared so much for her as I do. I cared somuch for her, Mr. Holland, that I remained away from her in Paris forthree months so that I might school myself to my fate, making no signthat would lead her to suspect the truth. Why should she have sixmonths' additional misery? I have strayed. The Church. I want to givemy wife an aim in life; to make her feel that she is doing somethingworthy--to keep her from thinking of less worthy things. Now, I thinkyou will agree with me that there is nothing women are really so fondof as a Church of some sort. To be devout is as much a part of awoman's disposition as to love--the passion of devoutness sometimestakes the place of the passion of love in her nature. Now, I want togive her this idea of a Church to work out when I am dead. I want youto carry out as joint trustee with her your theories in regard to theritual, the art, the sermon; and for this purpose I should of courseprovide an ample endowment--say three or four thousand a year;anything you may suggest: I shall leave a great deal of money behindme."

"Your project startles me, Mr. Linton," said George Holland. "Itstartles me as greatly as the first revelation you made to me did.They may be mistaken--the doctors; I have known cases where thehighest authorities were ludicrously in error. Let us hope that."

"Well, we may hope; I may live long enough to lay the foundation stoneof the Church myself. But I am most anxious that you should give thewhole matter your earnest attention."

"I am quite dazed. Do you suggest that I should leave the Church ofEngland?"

"By no means. That is a question which I leave entirely to your owndecision. My own idea is that you would like a free hand. You willhave to leave the Church sooner or later. A man with your advancedideas cannot regulate your pace to that of an old woman. In twentyyears the Church will think precisely as you think to-day. That is theway with the Church. It opposes everything in the way of aninnovation. You stated the case very fairly in your paper. The Churchopposes every discovery and every new thing as long as possible. Itthen only accepts grudgingly what all civilization has acceptedcordially. Oh, yes, you'll find it impossible to remain in the Church,Mr. Holland. 'Crabbed age and youth,' you know."

"I should part from the Church with the greatest reluctance, Mr.Linton."

"Then don't part from it, only don't place yourself in its power.Don't be beholden to it for your income. Don't go to the heads of theChurch for orders. Be your own master and in plain words, run theconcern on your own lines. The widow of the founder will have no powerto interfere with you in the matter of such arrangements."

"I shall have to give the matter a good deal of thought. I shouldnaturally have to reform a good deal of the ritual."

"Naturally. The existing ritual is only a compromise. And as for thehymns which are sung, why is it necessary for them to be doggerelbefore they are devotional?"

"The hymns are for the most part doggerel. We should have a first-ratechoir and anthems--not necessarily taken from the Bible. Why shouldnot Shakspere be sung in churches--Shakspere's divine poetry insteadof the nonsense-rhymes that people call hymns? Shakspere and Milton;Shelley I would not debar; Wordsworth's sonnets. But the scheme willrequire a great deal of thought."

"A great deal; that is why I leave it in your hands. You are athinking man--you are not afraid of tradition."

"Tradition--tradition! the ruts made in the road by the vehicles thathave passed over it in years gone by!"

"The road to the Church is sadly in need of macadamizing, Mr. Holland--or, better still, asphalting. Make a bicycle road of it, and you areall right. Now, come with me to my club and have lunch. We'll talk nomore just now about this matter."

They went out together.

CHAPTER XXX.

THERE IS NO ONE I LIKE BETTER THAN PHYLLIS.

Phyllis Ayrton had spent a considerable time pondering over thatproblem of how best to save a man and a woman from destruction--social, perhaps; eternal, for certain. She felt that it had been laidupon her to save them both, and she remembered the case of one Jonah,a prophet, who, in endeavoring to escape from the disagreeable dutywith which he had been intrusted, had had an experience that waspractically unique, even among prophets. She would not try to evadeher responsibility in this matter.

A few days after Herbert Courtland had witnessed by the side of Ellathe representation of "Carmen," he had met Phyllis at an At Home. Hehad seen her in the distance through a vista of crowded rooms, and hadcrushed his way to her side. He could scarcely fail to see the littlelight that came to her face as she put out her hand to him, nor couldher companion of the moment--he was one of the coming men in science,consequently like most coming men, he had been forced into a prominentplace in the drawing room--fail to perceive that his farewell momentwith that pretty Miss Ayrton had come. She practically turned her backupon him when Herbert Courtland came up.

For some moments they chatted together, and then it occurred to himthat she might like some iced coffee. His surmise proved correct, andas there was at that moment a stream of people endeavoring to avoidthe entertainment of the high-class pianoforte player which wasthreatened in a neighboring apartment, Phyllis and her companion hadno trouble in slipping aside from the panic-stricken people into thetea room.

It was a sultry day, and the French windows of the room were open. Itwas Phyllis who discovered that there was a narrow veranda, with iron-work covered with creepers, running halfway round the house fromwindow to window; and when he suggested to her that they might drinktheir coffee on this veranda, she hailed the suggestion as a veryhappy one. How did it come that none of the rest of the people hadthought of that? she wondered.

In another instant they were standing together at the space betweenthe windows outside, the long-leaved creepers mingling with thedecorations of her hat, and making a very effective background for hiswell-shaped head.

For the next half-hour people were intermittently coming to one of thewindows, putting their heads out and then turning away, the girls withgentle little pursings of the mouth and other forms that the sneerfeminine assumes; the men with winks and an occasional chuckle,suggestive of an exchange of confidence too deep for words.

One woman had poked her head out--it was gray at the roots and goldenat the tips--and asked her companion in a voice that had a largecircumference where was Mrs. Linton.

Now, Herbert Courtland had not lived so long far from the busy hauntsof men (white) as to be utterly ignorant of the fact that no youngwoman but one who is disposed to be quite friendly with a man, wouldadopt such a suggestion as he had made to her, and spend half an hourdrinking half a cup of iced coffee by his side in that particularplace. The particular place might have accommodated six persons; buthe knew, and he knew that she knew also, that it was one of theunwritten laws of good society that such particular places areovercrowded if occupied by three persons. It was on this account theold men and maidens and the young men and matrons--that is how theypair themselves nowadays--had avoided the veranda so carefully,refusing to contribute to its congestion as a place of resort.

Herbert Courtland could not but feel that Phyllis intended to befriendly with him--even at the risk of being within audible distanceof the strong man who was fighting a duel /a outrance/ with a grandpiano; and as he desired to be on friendly terms with a girl in whomhe was greatly interested, he was very much pleased to find hershowing no disposition to return to the tea room, or any other room,until quite half an hour had gone by very pleasantly. And then she didso with a start: the start of a girl who suddenly remembers a duty--and regrets it.

That had pleased him greatly; he felt it to be rather a triumph forhim that by his side she had not only forgotten her duty but was gladshe had forgotten it.

"Oh, yes!" she said, in answer to his question, "I have two otherplaces to go to. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry that you remembered them?" he had suggested.

She shook her head smiling.

"What would happen if--I had continued forgetting them?" she asked.

"That is the most interesting question I have heard in some time. Whynot try to continue forgetting them?"

"I'm too great a coward," she replied, putting out her hand to him,for now her victoria had drawn up and the footman was standing readyto open the door.

"Good-by," said he.

"Oh, no! only /au revoir/," she murmured.

"With all my heart--/au revoir/ at The Mooring," said he.

That /au revoir/ had reference to the circumstance that they were tobe fellow-guests at Mrs. Linton's house at Hurley-on-Thames, known asThe Mooring. Phyllis had told him that she was about to pay thatvisit, and when he said:

"Why, I am going as well," she had raised her eyes to his face, anunmistakable look of pleasure on her own, as she cried:

"I am so glad! When do you go?"

"On Thursday."

"I go on Tuesday--two days sooner."

The tone in which she spoke made him feel that she had said:

"What on earth shall I do during those dreary two days?" or else hehad become singularly conceited.

But even if she had actually said those words they would not have madehim feel unduly vain. He reflected upon the fact which he had morethan once previously noticed--namely, that the girl, though wise asbecame a daughter of a Member of Parliament to be (considering thatshe had to prevent, or do her best to prevent, her father from makinga fool of himself), was in many respects as innocent and as natural asa girl should be. She had only spoken naturally when she had said thatshe was glad he was to be of the riverside party--when she had impliedby her tone that she was sorry that two whole days were bound to passbefore he should arrive.

What was there in all that she had said, to make such a man as he vain--in all that she had implied? If she had been six years old insteadof twenty-three, she would probably have told him that she loved him.The innocence of the child would have made her outspoken; but wouldhis vanity have been fostered by the confession? It was the charmingnaturalness of the girl that had caused her to speak out what it wasbut natural she should feel. She and he had liked each other from thefirst, and it was quite natural that she should be glad to see him atHurley.

That was what he thought as he strolled to his rooms preparatory todressing for some function of the night. He flattered himself that hewas able to look at any situation straight in the face, so to speak.He flattered himself that he was not a man to be led away by vanity.He was, as a rule, on very good terms with himself, but he was ratherinclined to undervalue than overestimate the distinction which heenjoyed among his fellow-men. And the result of his due considerationof his last meeting with Phyllis was to make him feel that he hadnever met a girl who was quite so nice; but he also felt that, if hewere to assume from the gladness which she had manifested not merelyat being with him that day, but at the prospect of meeting him up theriver, that he had made an impression upon her heart, he would beassuming too much.

But all the same, he could not help wishing that Ella had asked him togo to The Mooring on Tuesday rather than Thursday; and he felt whenTuesday arrived that the hot and dusty town with its ceaseless roll ofgloomy festivities contained nothing for him that he would notwillingly part withal in exchange for an hour or two beside the stillwaters of the Thames in the neighborhood of Hurley.

Stephen Linton had bought The Mooring when his wife had taken a fancyto it the previous year, when she had had an attack of that riverfever which sooner or later takes hold upon Londoners, making themready to sell all their possessions and encamp on the banks of theThames. It had been a great delight to her to furnish that lovely oldhouse according to her taste, making each room a picture ofconsistency in decoration and furniture, and it had been a greatdelight to her to watch the garden being laid out after the mostperfect eighteenth-century pattern, with its green terraces andclipped hedges. She had gone so far as to live in the house for closeupon a whole fortnight the previous autumn. Since that time thecaretaker had found it a trifle too cold in the winter and too hot inthe summer, he had complained to Mrs. Linton. But she knew that thereis no pleasing caretakers; she had not been put out of favor with theplace; she hoped to spend at least a week under its roof before theend of the season, and perhaps another week before starting forScotland in the autumn.

She suddenly came to the conclusion one day that her husband was notlooking well--a conclusion which was certainly well founded. Shedeclared that a few days up the river was precisely what would restorehim to robust health. (But here it is to be feared her judgment was inerror.) He had been thinking too much about the new development of themine and the property surrounding it at Taragonda Creek. What did hisreceiving a couple of hundred thousand pounds matter if his healthwere jeopardized, she inquired of him one day, wearing the anxiousface of the Good Wife.

He had smiled that curious smile of his,--it was becoming more curiousevery day,--and had said:

"What, indeed!"

"Up the river we shall go, and I'll get Phyllis to come with us toamuse you--you know that you like Phyllis," his wife cried.

"There is no one I like better than Phyllis," he had said.

And so the matter had been settled.

But during the day or two that followed this settlement, Ella cameupon several of her friends who she found were looking a trifle faggedthrough the pressure of the season, and she promptly invited them toThe Mooring, so that she had a party of close upon a dozen personscoming to her house--some for a day, some for as long as three days,commencing with the Tuesday when she and Phyllis went off together.Mr. Linton had promised to join the party toward the end of the week.